Death Takes a Gander (5 page)

Bernie shook his head. “I’m here on the curiosity factor. It’s not my jurisdiction. This one belongs to U.S. Fish and Wildlife, though Frakus seems ready to take over.”

Bernie jerked his head toward the boat ramp. Frakus simmered on the sidelines, pacing back and forth in front of the concession stands like a caged mountain lion, checking his watch every other lap.

If he boils over, thought Lark, he’ll melt the ice. As it was, he had worn a rut in the snowpack. She doubted he’d keep his lid on for long.

The trucks arrived, stacked two layers deep with carriers. Birds were stuffed into the carriers, which were then reloaded by single layer into another truck. Several vehicles pulled away, headed to the Raptor House, and several more took their place near the ice. Lark could see the group needed a hand. “I’ve got work to do, Bernie.”

“Go to it.”

She stepped around him and walked toward Eric and the pile of geese. Within a yard of them, she stopped, her stomach churning at the sight of the dead birds. Closing her eyes, she gulped some deep breaths and struggled for composure.

“Having trouble?” Eric asked. His thick Norwegian accent provided soothing. The tenderness in his voice brought tears to her eyes.

“Yes.”

Gripping her elbow, he steered her away, walking her down the ice. “Take my advice. Go for the live ones.”

She glanced up. “I’m such a wimp.”

“Ja, vell, we’ll keep it our secret,” he said, winking. A brown curl fell across his forehead, and she resisted the impulse to tuck it up into his cap.

“Bernie wants to know why the geese are sick.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That my guess was lead poisoning.”

“Then
my
guess is you’re right.”

His tone caused her to stiffen. “Did you find something?”

“Not me—Angela.” He jerked his head in the direction of the U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent.

“Do you know her well?” Lark hoped she didn’t sound jealous. In the eight months they’d been dating, she had encountered enough of his old girlfriends to bring out a green streak she worked to deny.

“She was Ian’s partner.” He released his hold on Lark’s elbow and stepped in front of her. “When Frakus ordered his crew to clean up the ice, she and I were forced to dive behind the fishing huts. She found these.” Eric held out his hand.

Lark stared down at the objects in his open palm.

Fishing sinkers! Lead fishing sinkers!

Hours later, Angela banged
on the side of Lark’s truck, giving her the go-ahead. Lark waved in return, then crawled the vehicle up the boat launch, hauling the last of the geese off the ice.

“Damn!” Angela exclaimed, watching the truck pull away. Nothing about this was fair.

“Shake the lead out, Dimato,” yelled Frakus, taking his post behind the microphone at the registration table.

Was that a Freudian slip, or a pun intended?

Angela fingered the fishing sinkers in her pocket like worry beads. Who had laced the ice with lead? Or was it an accident there were so many sinkers scattered about near the fishing huts?

Frakus placed his fists on his hips and glared downhill. “We’re running late.”

“Keep your shorts on,” she muttered, sprinting up the incline. “I’m coming.”

Not that she wanted to. She wanted to be up at the Raptor House helping. Instead, the others had snared the coveted roles, and Kramner had appointed her Queen of the Jamboree.

Frakus tapped his foot.

Angela slowed to a walk.

The fishermen formed a line to Frakus’s left. An eclectic bunch, they ranged in ages from preschoolers to grandmas and sported every type of fishing gear from high-tech rods to Mickey Mouse poles. Apart from the fishermen who’d been camping near the lake, they’d started arriving half an hour earlier. Some seemed annoyed by the wait, but most were amused at the antics of the rescue operation. Some had even pitched in and offered to help.

By then, “Operation Gander” had degenerated into a goose roundup. Three people would herd a goose down the ice, where a fourth person would net the bird and wrestle it into a kennel cab. A team of fishermen calling themselves the “Salmon Poachers” had won the illustrious title of “Loose Goose Champions,” netting twelve birds in just under fifteen minutes.

“Dimato!” Frakus yelled.

“I’m here,” Angela said, stepping up behind him. Muzak blared from the speakers overhead, making her head hurt, and the smell of hotdogs made her stomach rumble.

“Finally.” Frakus reached for the microphone. There was a sharp blast of static as he flipped it on, then his voice rasped over the P.A. system. “Welcome, everyone. I am pleased to see such a large turnout for the First Annual Elk Park Ice Fishing Jamboree.”

The fishermen cheered.

“Before we get started, we have a couple of pieces of business to take care of. First, I’d like to apologize for the rescue operation you encountered when you arrived. It certainly wasn’t in the plans. But, since it seems most of us are rooting for the geese, rest assured… I’ll keep you up to date on their recovery.”

As if you care
.

“Next, I’d like to introduce Angela Dimato. She’s with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service and charged with making sure you know your fish. Angela.”

“Thank you,
John.”
Angela emphasized the use of his first name, then faced the crowd. “My sole responsibility this weekend is to make sure you all know what a greenback cutthroat trout looks like and that you release any that you might catch. The greenback is the Colorado state fish and considered a threatened species. It has a green-colored back, large black spots on its body, and a blood-red stripe near its jaw. There are cards at check-in with a picture of the fish. If you have any questions, I’ll be around all weekend.”

She stepped back from the mike and Frakus stepped up. “Thank you, Angel. Now I’d like to introduce you to an avid fisherman—”

Another cheer rose from the crowd.

“—and the CEO of our cosponsor, Agriventures, Incorporated, Donald Tauer. Donald, would you like to say a few words?”

Tauer stepped out of the shadows behind them, and Angela stepped aside as he made his way to the mike. She had spotted him earlier on the ice, helping with the geese, but hadn’t realized who he was. Forty-ish, tan, with chiseled features and dark wavy hair that bumped the collar of his jet-black snowsuit, he wore no hat and sequestered his eyes behind a pair of Revos.

“Thank you, John,” he said, accepting the microphone and scanning the crowd. “What a day, huh?”

The fishermen stirred impatiently.

Angela squirmed too.

“How many of you know anything about Agriventures?”

Only a handful of hands shot up.

“Not enough,” Tauer said, exaggerating a frown. “Guess I’ll have to remedy that.” He flashed a bright smile. “Let me give you the highlights. We’re an agricultural company that specializes in growing organic crops. We focus on raising food that’s safe for you and your families to eat. Food that’s free of pesticides and chemicals. Food that’s one hundred percent naturally grown.” He paused.

The applause was thin.

“Okay, then,” he said, wrapping up. “I, too, will be around all weekend. I’m look forward to awarding the Agriventures trophy, along with a cash prize, to the individual who catches the biggest fish.”

The crowd roared.

Angela shared the sentiment.
Let’s get this show on the road
.

Though it was played up as a social event, the Jamboree was strictly a commercial endeavor. While Angela passed out cards on the greenback cutthroat trout, Frakus’s staff raked in the dough, checked fishing licenses, and issued tournament numbers and bibs. Grizzly Liquors’concession stand specialized in “beer, hot pretzels, and permits,” and anyone without a license, or whose license had expired, only had to purchase one and then get back in line.

By nine a.m., the staff had checked in 156 fishermen and the hordes had taken to the ice. Enough holes were punched in the lake to make it look like Swiss cheese, and Angela worried the ice might collapse. She seemed to be the only one concerned. Everyone else appeared jubilant.

“I caught one,” screamed a little boy holding a young trout up for his grandpa to see. Angela recognized the man as one of the first fishermen to arrive on scene. He had witnessed the carnage from the bank and joined the ranks of the EPOCH members spanning the ice. Later he had helped load the injured and sick birds into crates.

“Way to go, Gabe!” he said.

“The boy needs to throw that fish back,” grumbled Frakus. “Go tell him before the thing dies.”

Angela studied the boy’s face, then eyeballed the fish. Frakus was right. The fish was too small.

“Why don’t you tell him, Frakus? You’ve got being an ogre down to a science.”

“Look, girl, you are here to do a job.”

“I am doing my job. Kramner assigned me here to ensure the safety of the greenback cutthroat trout. I’m not your personal game warden.”

“Maybe not, but I’m going to make sure Kramner hears about your crappy attitude. I’d be careful if I were you.”

Angela stood, knocking over her chair. “Fine, you want me to talk to the kid, I’ll talk to the kid. But first… ” she glanced at her watch. “By law, federal employees get fifteen minute breaks in the morning and afternoon, plus half an hour for lunch, and time and a half over eight. I missed my break, and, with four hours clocked, I’d say it’s lunchtime.”

“By the time you’re back, the fish will be dead.”

“The fish is already dead, and the boy is only like six years old. Besides, I’ll have to measure the fish to be sure, and my tape is in my truck, which is up at the Raptor House.”

“You insolent… wench.”

“Oh, now, now, John. We both know gender bashing in the workplace is against the law. Trust me, you don’t want to go there.”

Frakus rolled his eyes, then looked down at the cash box on the table. “I hope you choke on your hotdog.”

Lark Drummond wheeled the truck into the Raptor House parking lot and slowed to a crawl. Trucks and cars were wedged into every available nook and cranny along the perimeter and parked in a row down the middle.

“Pull up in front of Bird Haven,” Harry said, pointing to a narrow slot near the front steps of Miriam Tanager’s house.

“I don’t know if I can fit the truck in there.” Lark cranked the wheel hard, inched forward, and then stopped. “Maybe you should get out first.”

“Good thought.” Harry jumped out, slamming the door, then leaned over the truck-bed railing and grabbed up two carriers from the back. “I’ll send out the cavalry,” he shouted, his breath a white mist fogging the back window.

Lark lifted her chin and watched him sprint for the barn in the rearview mirror. Still part of the Tanager estate, the tall, green structure anchored the seven-building rehabilitation complex, run in conjunction with the National Park Service. There was a nesting compound for burrowing owls, a place for kestrels and other small raptors, a place for large eagles, a test flight area, and the hospital wing. The barn served as intensive care.

She dropped the truck into low gear and squeezed forward into the parking spot. Before she could set the parking brake, a flood of volunteers poured out of the barn and emptied the back of her truck. By the time she had wiggled free of the cab, she’d become part of the mop-up crew.

Slamming shut the tailgate, she took her time getting to the barn. The sun was out, the snow sparkled in the light, and the air had warmed to a comfortable breathing temperature. She envied Angela, getting to sit outside by the lake, and eyed the barn with trepidation.

Inside, pandemonium greeted her. Geese and volunteers clogged the open space. Winter clothes had been sloughed off onto the stacks of wire cages that lined the south wall. Dust rose from the earthen floor and mingled with the smell of wet feathers, wool, and fresh hay. Geese honked. People chattered. The noise reverberated off the rafters.

Dorothy and Cecilia perched like a pair of matching bookends on a wooden crate midway to the back. Though two years apart in age, sitting shoulder to shoulder, their ash-blonde perms merging, sweater touching sweater, they looked like gray-eyed twins posing as pinups for a retirement community catalogue. Composed against the chaotic background, neither woman looked sixty-something. The only way to tell them apart was by sweater color.

Lark picked her way toward them through a maze of brightly colored tubs, clumps of hay, people, and geese. Many of the birds appeared dead, sprawled on the ground with their necks stretched out. Others writhed in pain or staggered about. One gander with a torn wing seemed frantic to find his mate.

In places, goose dung had turned the dirt floor to mud, and Lark slid to a stop next to the women. A feeling of hopelessness enveloped her. “What do we do now?” she asked.

Dorothy pursed her lips and tipped her head toward the office. “We’re still waiting for Eric to give us the word. Meanwhile, we’ve housed the flock between the barn and the hospital wing and bought plastic tubs for water. Carmichael’s Feed and Tack donated the hay.”

“That was nice of them,” replied Lark, resting her thigh against the edge of the crate.

“They even sent some of the staff to help.” Dorothy gestured toward a group of young cowboys bucking hay bales into the loft.

“So how many geese did we lose in transport?”

“Fifty,” Cecilia answered. “We started with 136.”

Lark watched the injured gander lurch drunkenly on his feet. “We’re going to lose more if we don’t do something.”

“Quit preaching to the choir,” snapped Dorothy. “Eric’s the one who’s not ready.”

“Why don’t I go talk to him?” Lark waved herself off, then wove her way to the back of the barn.

The kitchen area was clear, the noise muted. She ran her hand along a chrome countertop and stopped at the door of the office. Harry Eckles sat in a visitor’s chair across the desk from Eric, who was on the phone. He raised his hand when she entered.

“Then we’re in agreement,” Eric said to the person on the other end of the line. “What’s the procedure?”

Lark saw him grimace.

“You’re serious,” he said. “Explain it again.”

“What?” mouthed Lark.

Eric swiveled his back to her, and she turned to Harry. “How bad could it be?”

He shrugged, peering at her through horn-rimmed glasses, looking every bit the biology professor. Tall and muscular, with sandy hair, he must have broken a few coeds’hearts, especially when they learned he was gay. “Bad,” he ventured. “He’s on the phone with the vet.”

Eric turned back around. “Okay, thanks.” Hanging up the receiver, he planted his elbows on the desk and dropped his face into his hands.

“So?” Lark prompted.

Eric rubbed his eyes. “That was George Covyduck. He says the only way to know for sure that it’s lead poisoning is to do a necropsy on one of the geese.”

“Who’s going to pay for it?” Harry asked. “I doubt we’ll get U.S. Fish and Wildlife to pop for it.”

“True,” Eric said. “Which means, based on what we know, we treat for lead poisoning. The birds show all the clinical signs—weakness, drooping wings, green, watery diarrhea.”

“In abundance,” Lark said, glancing down at her boots.

“Don’t forget the fishing sinkers Angela Dimato found on the ice,” added Harry.

Lark’s impatience reached an all-time high. “Then it’s settled. So how do we help them?”

Eric pushed up his sleeves. “According to Covy, the only chance is to remove the lead from the geese’s gastrointestinal tracts, then give them chelating agents and pray.”

“How do we do that?” Lark asked.

Harry pressed his palms together, up under his chin.

“Not pray,” Lark said. “How do we get the lead out?”

Eric’s mouth twitched. “It can be surgically removed.”

“Do either of you know how to operate?” she asked, glancing between them. “Because I sure don’t.”

“I’ve done a few dissections,” Harry said.

“We’re going for live,” Lark said.

Eric nodded. “Which leaves us with lavage. We’ll have to flush out their digestive tracts with water.”

She froze. There were two ways to do that. Lark raised her hand. “Question?”

“Ja?”

“Which end are we washing?”

Eric grinned, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes, then he burst out laughing. “We go in through the mouth.”

Lark’s face grew hot.

“You stole my question,” Harry said, taking the heat off.

“At the risk of seeming stupid… ” she said.

Both men looked at her expectantly.